When MSN instant messaging first came out and all my friends signed up, my parents answered my pathetic pleas with a stern “NO!” I pouted for days as my social status plummeted to absolute zero. For weeks, when the phone rang, I still jumped up like I used to, expecting it to be for me. It rarely was. No one made phone calls anymore; MSN served as the major mode of communication. It wasn’t long before My Space overtook MSN and again I took my pleading eyes to my parents. What led me to believe that the answer would be a smile and a nod, I will never know. So once again, I found myself on the social fringe, begging my friends to let me in on the secret of this awe-inspiring social media, and allow me to live vicariously through their profiles. But like all social trends, MySpace had its moment and then the newest fashion overtook it. Facebook arrived. I didn’t even bother to beg my parents this time. I would not be accused of insanity. Instead, I adopted a new mantra “If you can’t join them, hate them mercilessly.” I became the anti-Facebook queen, and all through high school I laughed at all those people who lived their lives behind their computer screens, updating, and scrolling, creeping and stalking.

As I sat on the 190 on my way to York on a Monday morning, I did a little people watching and, most unsurprisingly, it seemed everyone under the age of 25 had some technological appendage glued to their fingers or plugged into their ears. Finger tips flew across Blackberry keys and over iPhone touch screens. Music pounded out of several pairs of earphones, creating an unmelodious medley. Sing-songy chirps and the buzz of vibration added to the melee, notifying owners of text messages, BBMs, and Twitter and Facebook updates. I myself typed up this observation on my Blackberry as The Weeknd crooned through my ear buds. It’s a marked characteristic of Generation Y: we are one with our technology.

Surely we’ve all heard the rising complaints from the more aged and wise about technological dependence. They’re either warning us that our earphones will deafen us, our screens will blind us, our entertainment will numb us or our social networking will destroy our people skills. Essentially, the perspective of our parents and grandparents seems to be that the technology we’re so fond of will turn our brains to mush and have it leaking out of our ears onto our pillows.

As a woman, if you are any sort of attractive, you expect to be stared at. Whether you’ve got a cute face, a nice figure or the full package, men, and some women, are going to look at you. Intensely. Awkardly. Even creepily. No it’s not fun, but it’s part of life. People stare at things they find pretty. That’s why we sit and watch the sunset.

Most of us have learned to avert our eyes from those of our creepy admirers, ignore the eyes on our breasts and butts and just pretend that the dude’s eyes aren’t locked onto us like heat tracking missiles. All we can do is hope that the guy doesn’t muster up the courage to come talk to you, because it’s already awkward enough, thank you very much.

But lo and behold, he’s found his balls, and kudos to him, because we all know rejection is a wretched thing. He comes over, asks for your name and number, you aren’t interested and you let him know and he leaves with his head hung and his ego just slightly deflated – or completely flat depending on how fragile his self-esteem is.